Bipolar Disorder / depression / Identity


Creep past the hours, like the shorter hand on a clock hanging on a wall of a schoolhouse somewhere. We wait for the bell, and we dream of somewhere else. – Daydreaming, Paramore

This isn’t so much a prison of the body as of the mind and heart. Something about this place fills its inhabitants with dull despair and irrationality. It’s like Kansas – everything is gray.

This is the place where my ____ was stripped of his dignity and worth. Where I made up my mind to die, not so very long ago. Where my ___ ‘s narcissism reigns supreme.

I try to send my mind on journeys from this place, like a tower prisoner sailing paper airplanes out of a barred window. But I never get very far.




I can’t seem to find the conviction that I blew up the internet with, still less long ago. (My small patch of the internet, anyway.) Or even the rage. After weeks of forced worship at the altar of the holy trinity of Lamictal, Seroquel and Solian, I’m as dull, desperate and irrational as every last miserable inhabitant of this place.

I have news that an ex-lover of mine is now with another ex-lover of mine. I don’t know how this news is supposed to make me feel. I suppose it’s only natural to feel uneasy. Perhaps at this very moment they are exchanging the sordid details of exactly how awful I am in bed. Perhaps they’re so in love that they’ve completely forgotten I existed. It’s hard to say which makes me feel more uneasy.

This is like a sort of purgatory, where I’m being purged of everything that makes me alive. My hopes, my plans, my self-esteem.

About three years ago I decided here that I had lost my mind and I was better off dead. Not having managed that, I decided then that I was good for nothing but menial labor and the most simple tasks for the rest of my life. So I left the University.

The other day, almost all the people I’d known there graduated.

They’re all done and ready to move on with their lives. They managed the pressure without cracking up. Perhaps I’ve been wrong about the pressure that I so angrily wrote about. Perhaps there’s just ever a handful of us unlucky ones.

I’m doubting things I was so sure of just one, two months ago –

That I’m a good writer –

That my life’s heading somewhere –

That I’m in control of where it goes –

There are so many things I could write about, pieces I could submit – about the lake – somewhere nice to eat – about what I went through to get a prescription for Nordette in 2013; what it was like to grow up bipolar and gay; what it was like to have a relationship with an older woman.. oh, so many things… but… I don’t know where to start and how to structure them –

It’s like setting out to a different room, and always forgetting what you were there for the minute you step foot inside.


Here, anyway. In this place of doubt.


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